HWYD Chapter 3.1

Note: If you read chapter two, I ended up modifying it so that Finnley skips like half of the school day to go to the library and research ghosts (but with no satisfying results). I didn't want to post it again, but I thought I'd make a note about the changes just in case they're necessary for this chapter to make proper sense.

Allie wasn’t gone forever. Somehow, impossibly, she was here. Each day, Finnley went to school, kept his head down, did his work. Managed not to ditch school too often. But each night, past midnight, she would appear below his window. And each night, she would lead him on through the neighborhood, out towards the silence of the wilderness. He never caught her, though he got closer and closer each night, and he never told anyone.

Within a week, everything was normalized. Finnley had a firm routine of dragging himself out of bed after another long night, getting dressed and ready for another agonizing school day, returning Rory to the rabbit’s hutch. He walked to and from school, completed his homework, and generally tried to minimize his interactions with others as much as he could.

Sometimes, however, it was unavoidable.

Finnley had thought that his poetry class was some kind of saving grace, for a time. Mr. Forbes was deeply concerned with his art, and he was excited to see every which kind of poetry his students came up with. However, his fatal flaw (at least in Finnley’s mind) was his love for the spoken word.

Every unit, each student was required to read one of his or her poems in front of the class, whichever one had the highest grade or felt the most comfortable. Finnley wasn’t comfortable with any of them. Not only were the poems of a somewhat personal nature—which hadn’t seemed to matter when it was only Mr. Forbes grading them along with dozens of others—but Finnley was unwilling to read anything out loud whatsoever.

As Finnley stared at his poems, his heart began to thud in his throat. He subconsciously knotted his hands together quietly in his lap as he considered his options. Would it be worth it to run out of the class? Not remotely. He was trying to avoid attention, and this was not the way to do it. That would give much more incentive for the other students to poke fun at him than sticking with the herd and doing what he was required to do. So, reading, then.

Finnley thumbed through his poems with a shaky hand before finally closing his eyes and pulling one out of the pile. Reluctantly, he looked at it, and he felt a tremor pass through him like the day he had written it, and the day he had written it about. So be it. This would be the one, and with a little luck, no one would know it for what it really was.

When his name was called—much too soon—Finnley stood with carefully practiced posture before the assembled students, though the paper taut between his worried fingers. He took a silent breath in and began:

“Who cries for you?

in the snow-covered night;

the dark, flowing water

’neath the veil’d moon’s light.

*

No one? Calls the owl,

drifting out across the ice;

no one, you confirm,

as if this will suffice.”

A round of snapping fingers followed the conclusion of the short poem, and Finnley started before he remembered that the snapping was customary for the recitation of poems. While he stood, slightly dazed, Mr. Forbes offered his delight alongside some constructive criticism, just as he had with every other student.

Finnley breathed out slowly and sat down again. Though his face was burning red, all of the students had turned their half-lidded gazes to either their phones or the next speaker, currently reading a poorly metered suite of haiku. One person, however, had turned around to look at him. Finnley only caught a glimpse of golden brown eyes before another student shifted in his seat and covered up the eyes.

When lunch came at fifth period, and he stood in the lunch line with a tray as usual, when he didn’t walk out of the lunchroom altogether. When his mother had asked, Finnley insisted that he preferred the bland meals served at school, when in truth he couldn’t stand the thought of his mother personally packing a lunch for him each early morning. That meant that the nacho-cheese-covered-noodles that were being slopped on his plate was entirely his own fault.

It was still hot outside, but apparently the library was closed during lunch periods, so going into the adjoining courtyard would be the only alternative to the noise of the lunchroom. A loud ‘hey’ separated itself from the general hubbub and Finnley glanced around, but could see nothing to indicate that it was directed at him. The person called out twice more, but Finnley continued to walk towards the doors.

The metal crash bar clinked loudly as Finnley shoved against it with his back to let himself out, and a girl darted out through the opening he had created. He stood awkwardly, facing her, as the door banged itself closed and cut off the din of the lunchroom, enveloping them in a sudden silence.
“If you had just turned around when I shouted ‘hey’ I wouldn’t have had to run after you,” the girl accused, one hand on her hip even as she doubled over to breathe. She wore a bright red dress and sneakers, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail that hung over one shoulder, and her golden brown eyes gleamed in the sunlight. All told, Finnley had never seen her before in his life—but the eyes were familiar.

“I’m sorry, but who are you?” he asked, finally managing to gather himself. “Have we met?”

“Obviously that’s what we’re doing right now,” she snapped back, but then her face was lit up by a wide grin. “Mia Hart. And you’re Finnley. Finnley… Bale?”

“That’s right,” Finnley replied, then looked around as if she could possibly be speaking to some other Finnley behind him. The sun is strong this time of day. This could be some kind of hallucination. But even in his head it was a lame excuse. This Mia girl was real. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I guess I’ll see you around.” Turning from her, he walked towards the shade of the small stand of maple trees in the courtyard, ragged from years of carved initials and kids leaning against them.

“You think you’re getting away that easily? Too late! You’re noticed, Finnley,” Mia said, following him to the trees. He noted with a sinking dread that she was carrying her own lunch from home and that she fully intended to eat with him.

In two whole weeks of school, Finnley had had no need to socialize with others outside of the basic courtesies, so he hadn’t the foggiest idea what was expected of him now. He decided to simply sit down and begin eating his lunch, and Mia started to eat hers too. Finnley was comfortable with the silence, gazing up over the blackened rooftops of the school, but the girl’s eyes flitted from here to there like a butterfly, sometimes landing on him or the crooked trees or the doors to the lunchroom.